You Are Driving Me Home
by ResidentOwl
Summary: Post 5x22 AU. The cage was meant for a powerful archangel, not humans; it's like placing a mouse in a lion's cage and expecting it to not slip through the cracks. Sam escapes with some unwanted changes and has to continue on alone, thinking that Cas and Bobby are dead and Dean is happy with Lisa. Or maybe not. He wasn't the only one that received some divine intervention. Angel!Sam
1. Am I Finally Home

Chapter 1: Am I Finally Home?

* * *

Sam blinked.

And again.

And again, because all good things come in threes, supposedly.

Nothing changed, and Sam blinked slowly once more, just in case. He stared up at obnoxiously blue sky with a few over-fluffy white clouds meandering across his vision, it was a saccharine perfect day with a slightly chilly breeze pushing the long scratchy grass against his skin.

Sam breathed, deep and slow, letting his eyes slide shut, not believing what he was seeing, what he was feeling.

It was just a lie, it was always a lie.

He levered himself up into a sitting position, his muscles seemed to creak in protest and he could feel the deep-seated grinding of his bones with every minuscule movement, as if he hadn't moved in a while. It didn't matter, he always felt like that, just another detail to sell the dream. Sam felt something thrumming deep in his chest, comforting and warm, locking out the cutting cold carried on the disgustingly gentle breeze.

He didn't want to open his eyes again, to let this fantasy fade and wither like countless others; he wanted to hold onto this dream that felt so real for just a little bit longer, before he was dragged back to that endless expanse of The Grey, to the ceaseless walking, to the vivid illusions, to The Cold.

He would give himself a moment. A few moments to enjoy this illusion, but then it'll time to move on, again.

So he didn't open his eyes.

Sam didn't think about the sun warming the back of his neck, the cold breeze brushing his long bangs to the side, or the hard scratchy crab grass attempting to pierce through the thick denim of his jeans to reach the sensitive flesh beneath. Actually, he did think about the last one, it was annoying. Well, as annoying as crab grass could be. It ruined the facsimile of a beautiful perfect day, a day of freedom, all that jazz, and wasn't that just a hard kick in the ass.

Sam tried to concentrate on the warmth that emanated from his chest, the warmth was real, the comfort was real, it was always real because it came from his soul. It wasn't something the cage cooked up to tempt him into forgetting, just to slowly corrupt the illusion into his worst nightmare where he would be trapped, it's happened before, it won't happen again.

This was usually the part where Dean hugged him, or Bobby and Castiel appeared alive and tried to take him home. Where ever that was.

This would be the 129th time he had woken up at Stull Cemetery, not that Sam was counting, and it wasn't going to be the last either.

Although, a lot of other places were much more popular: Bobby's house, the impala, the panic room, even his old apartment he shared with Jess in Stanford. It all just seemed too good to be true. And it was. Listening, watching the joyful reunion happen over and over in slightly different ways, just seemed so… shallow, like watching a foreign film with bad voice over act out the last 'happily ever after.'

He gripped the ugly, hot, brass amulet tightly around his neck, it was his anchor, it kept him from ever breaking, although he had come very close.

Sam supposed, if he ever got out, that he should thank Dean for throwing the amulet away. After all, if he hadn't tossed it in the garbage in such a dramatic gesture to show how _done _he was with trying to fix things with Sam, an icon of Dean's nonexistent belief in God and his distrust of Sam, then Sam would never had fished it out, eyes perhaps a bit moist, and worn it when he took the swan dive with dearest Luci in the back seat. He should thank Dean, maybe, probably, for this anchor. Because even if Dean gave up on fixing things with Sam, Sam would never give up on getting back to Dean.

So, hand tight on the cool metal of the small amulet around his neck, and his eyes shut tight against the warmth of the sun, he waited and repeated his mantra.

_It's not real._

He waited to awaken back to the expanse of The Grey, to see Lucifer or Michael looming over him, helping him up, to feel The Cold slowly seep back into his muscles until he couldn't take another step. Sam waited to begin walking, treading, endlessly in the direction he marked with blood the day before, just like he did everyday, still hoping he would reach the edge and slip through the cracks, one day.

He had lost count how many days, years, centuries passed. But it didn't matter, all that matters is he knows he will reach the edge, the bars, eventually.

Nothing happened. Sam didn't feel the scenery melt around him, he didn't feel The Grey and The Cold close in around him, he still felt the 'perfect' day, the perfect illusion surrounding him.

Sam's eyes flew open, his mouth sucking in a quick breath through his clenched teeth. He dared not hope, _but the amulet wasn't working. _It _always_ worked. Dean wasn't here. Bobby wasn't alive, making gruff reassurances. Hell, even Castiel wasn't here with his stupid, creepy, wonderful trench coat. They were supposed to be here! They were always here.

His breath came in fast, aborted gulps of air, his hands releasing the scorching amulet to scrabble at the ground, the rough grass pricking his palms and his fingers sinking deep into the tough earth.

_It- It-_

Desperate hands clung to his arms, grasping, scratching, forming deep rivulets in the soft flesh from his sharp, bitten fingernails. Just like they were before the jump. Blood welled in tiny droplets to the surface of his newly acquired cuts.

_It can't be-_

Shutting his eyes against the infuriatingly joyful sun, Sam clasped both large hands around the tiny amulet that meant the world to him for several centuries. The thin leather strap cut deeply into the back of his neck, and Sam prayed to leave this lie.

_It can't be real._

He was hyperventilating now, breath coming in short, ineffective gasps, trying to inhale the oxygen his body _craved._ The warmth in his chest thrummed in time with his fluttering heart, too fast, way too fast.

_Was it real?_

_I can't break the dream._

_I can't get out! _

_Do I even want to?_

_My anchor isn't working!_

_Maybe, this time…_

_It. Can't. Be. Real._

Sam was on his knees, eyes wide, staring blankly at the beautiful sky above, not a grey cloud in sight. His breath was coming too fast, he couldn't control his beating heart, he couldn't control the warmth, the light, the _thrumming._

Leaning over and collapsing in on himself, Sam _screamed._

Letting everything out, letting everything go, the soul-deep exhaustion, The Grey expanse of nothingness, The Cold that clawed relentlessly at his limbs, the centuries of nothing but walking, talking and heart-shatteringly real dreams.

A wave of light laced with gold-blue lightning erupted from his body, flattening the grass and whipping past the trees, tearing red and orange leaves from their branches like a shock wave.

_Something_ settled on his back, wrapping around him, warm and comforting and soft.

Sam rocked back on his heels, still kneeling.

Tears streamed unashamed down his cheeks, dripping slowly onto his hands that clutched desperately at the tiny brass amulet that burned his palms. He looked up at the perfect blue sky, the few superfluous fluffy white clouds that slowly trailed across the horizon, without a care in the world, and he felt the cool wind ruffle his long hair, in a facsimile of a long-forgotten affectionate gesture.

_Am I finally home?_

.

—ooOoo—

.


	2. What Wouldn't I Give

Chapter 2: What Wouldn't I Give?

* * *

Sam knelt there, for what felt like hours, but what could have been minutes.

He gazed listlessly at the sky as clouds floated across his vision. Sam was so tired, the previous panic fleeing as quickly as it had come; his breath was steady as tears dried on his cheeks, leaving only tiny flakes of salt in their wake.

The cemetery was real.

This was real.

_Dean._

Something on his back twitch at the mildly distressing thought and curled around his body, blocking out the chilly wind that made Sam shiver, and instilling a sense of comfort that he had only ever felt from the amulet.

Sam looked around, suspicious of this mind reading comfort blanket that fell around his shoulders; there was nothing but the crab grass and balding trees surrounding him.

Even if he couldn't see this thing, he could still feel it, the warmth and softness resting across his back.

Tentatively, Sam pried his stiff hands from the now cool amulet, and reached over his shoulder where he can feel the soft blanket thing touching him. His calloused fingers brushed something stiff, and he yanked his hand away in alarm. The wings —_oh, God, they're wings— _jerked and flinched at his sudden apprehension, and —_Jesus Christ, I can feel them— _shifted back out of his reach, reacting to his dismay.

_Oh, God._

And Sam _knew. _He knew what happened, his last day in the cage flashing before his eyes like a clip show; Michael and Lucifer, the cracks between the bars like loosely woven fabric just enough for his tiny battered soul to slip through, the boost needed to rise through hell to get back home, and the amulet burning his chest as he flew upward, seemingly yanked harshly by some unknown entity.

_Why?_

He wanted them, the wings, the warmth, the unnaturalness, to go away, just to give him a moment to bask in the glory of finally being free before he had to question his very existence.

As if his wish was heard, the wings seemed to sink into the skin of his back, the warmth concentrated in his chest instead of being stretched close to his skin as it was before.

Sam knew what it was, the warm light, he had felt it so many times before: when Castiel had touched his forehead and flown him across the U.S, when Lucifer was driving and Sam was unfortunately in shotgun, when Lucifer and Michael had ripped from their vessels to battle in their true forms as they were falling through the cage, and when the amulet burned on his chest as he stepped through the cracks.

_God's Grace._

Sam ducked his head, fighting back tears, and dug his hands into tough earth, as if trying to anchor himself, as if he could float off without meaning to.

_Why? Why couldn't I just be human._

_Abomination._

Sam could almost hear Uriel's snide voice laced with vitriol and his lip curled in revulsion, as if Sam wasn't worth being scum on his shoe.

The punishment must fit the crime, right? His punishment must not be over yet: for letting Lucifer loose, for jump starting the damn Apocalypse, for drinking demon blood, for trusting a Demon over his brother, for Ellen and Jo's sacrifice, for getting Bobby and Castiel killed, for disappointing Dean again and again. He'd left destruction in his wake since the day he was born.

And now he was here, on earth, resurrected again.

Maybe this time, he won't almost destroy the world.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, his large body weak and unbalanced from disuse, and started to walk out of the cemetery, tripping over the uneven ground.

He wasn't going to think about it. He wasn't going to think about what he'd done, what destruction he's wrought, he'd done enough of that in The Grey. He wasn't going to let himself think about the wings and the warmth in his chest, that seemed to comfort his distress. He wasn't going to contemplate what the hell he had become.

Not Yet.

Sam was finally out of the cage and, no matter what manner of creature he'd been turned into, he was going to see the person he cared about most.

_Dean._

—oOo—

Finding an old junker of a truck barely a mile from the cemetery was a stroke of luck. Hot-wiring the rust bucket too a bit longer than Sam remembered, but the muscle memory guided him through.

Sam wanted to just get on the interstate and drive non-stop to Cicero, but the half empty tank only lasted so long, and he had to stop for gas.

Unfortunately he didn't bring his wallet with him to hell and back. But luck seemed to be on his side for once, there were a couple tens in the glovebox and a few bucks here and there tucked in random alcoves.

Grabbing some random chips, energy drinks, and an almost expired pack of hoe hoes from the cheap shelving, Sam couldn't help the smile that ghosted his lips, remembering all those times as a kid when Dean had presented the same snacks as meals.

_"Hey!"_

_Sam turned his head, looking up from the stained box of cassettes he was rifling through._

_"You want breakfast?" Dean pulled a roll of lifesavers from between his teeth, presenting his bounty of chips and soda while quirking his eyebrows expectantly._

_Sam huffed, caught between disgust and fondness, and continued to pick through the box, scarcely believing that the tapes hadn't been destroyed in all the years of use. And as expected there was nothing new, somethings never changed._

_Sam felt a smile pull at his lips as he enjoyed the rare feeling of nostalgia._

_"No thanks." _

As Sam paid for 'breakfast' and gas, he peered over at the stack of newspapers on the counter, hoping to glean the date.

November 9th, 2010.

Only six God-damn months.

Jesus, it felt like so much longer. Between the effects of the cage on him and the lack of change to his surroundings and person, time just seemed to slip by. Hours were confused with years, and decades with centuries until time became just a name with no weight or meaning.

_"It was four months up here, but down there… I don't know. Time's different. It was more like 40 years."_

Shit.

"Hey!" The grubby cashier waved a hand in front of Sam's face, his bearded face scrunched up in an unflattering way. "Do you want the paper or not?"

Sam paused a long moment, staring incomprehensibly at the cashier.

"No."

The man huffed in irritation, shoving Sam's change across the counter with a bit more force than necessary, muttering about kids and smoking grass.

Sam collected the notes, trying to muster up an apologetic smile, but his face barely twitched.

…

Now, Sam stood beneath a dim flickering street lamp across from Lisa's house, watching through the window as Dean grinned at Ben as he teased him, setting dishes of steak and vegetables on the table for dinner.

Lisa walked into the dining room juggling a couple glasses of iced tea and a beer, Dean gazed at her with a spark of _something_ Sam had never seen before in Dean's eyes.

_Content._

Dean flashed a mega-watt grin, chuckling lightly at something Lisa said, before swooping in to steal quick kiss as she palmed off his beer. They broke apart when Ben made gagging noises, and they all sat down to eat, making easy conversation, laughing and smiling like one of those stereo-typical perfect families on TV commercials.

Dean was smiling, and not one of those strained smirks to disguise pain or one of his careless grins to disarm anyone from a waitress to cops, this was a genuine smile from happiness, from contentment.

The impenetrable darkness that had taken root in his eyes after Castiel raised him from Hell had lightened considerably; the wary tenseness that had become a permanent fixture in his shoulders since he began hunting had smoothed out, as if he didn't expect to have to fight for his life at any given moment.

It wasn't all gone, Sam couldn't conceive that the hard earned hunter instincts beaten into Dean since he was ten could be lost in a few months, but the wariness, the _weariness _that had weighed heavily on his shoulders for years had been lifted substantially since Sam took the swan dive.

Dean had kept his promise, and it had been good for him. Lisa and Ben had been good for him. Having a home and family had done so much in the little time he had been there.

He didn't look like he was grieving, having lost the only family he knew.

He didn't look like he'd lost his little brother to a place worse than hell just six months ago.

A flash of resentment registered briefly in Sam's mind before it was overwhelmed by a dark wave of self-loathing.

He should be happy that Dean wasn't a wreck, that he was able to find another family and replace what he'd lost.

Sam should be happy that Dean had moved on.

But he couldn't bring himself to walk up to the door like he had intended when he first awoke in the cemetery, like he had promised himself in the cage when he clung to the amulet to break the first illusion and began the long walk.

He couldn't bring himself to ruin Dean's happy ending.

Dean did what he promised, he didn't look for him, he went to live that apple pie life Sam wanted for him.

And Dean was thriving and happy and content.

So why did it _hurt_ so much?

Anger, fear, disappointment and the keen sense of loss tugged harshly on Sam's soul and the wings inadvertently manifested as near invisible shimmers of air, curling around him protectively, as if that small comfort could shield him from the soul deep longing and loneliness he felt.

Sam wanted his brother.

He wanted Dean with him, reassuring him that everything was real, telling him that they'd figure out what was wrong with him and move forward, just like they always did.

He longed to be in the passenger seat of the Impala, watching the scenery blur past his window with Dean driving and singing off-key to Led Zeppelin, just another day at home.

Sam would give anything for Dean to complain about his diet choices, to call him a girl for buying specialty coffee drinks, to freeze his laptop with bad porn, to have his back, like he promised he always would.

Sam would give anything for these moments, the bright colorful spots in The Grey through the centuries, maybe millennia, of routine, monotony and The Cold.

They all seemed so distant, now, with time as a buffer, blurring details together, but even if Sam forgot where they were, who they met, or even what creature they were hunting, he never forgot Dean, not even the most heart rending memories that were better left forgotten.

Even though Sam would give everything, anything, to be with his big brother, he couldn't ask the same from Dean.

Dean shouldn't have to choose between his once-dead freak of a brother wishing for him to fix all his screw-ups and his new family where he had a happy stable place to call home.

Sam couldn't do that to Dean.

It would have been better, easier, if he had never stepped out of the cage.

Sam gripped the amulet tightly with one hand, trying to grasp a tenuous sense of comfort from his only remaining memento of Dean, still watching him eat dinner with the family he'd always wanted.

Taking a sip from the beer bottle, Dean turned his head toward the front window, toward Sam, as if something caught his attention.

Time seemed to slow as Dean's eyes tracked over to where his once-thought-dead little brother stood. Sam's eyes widened in alarm.

_No._

He couldn't let Dean see him, ever, and possibly choose ruin this new life he had carved out for himself, a life without fear, without divine interference, a life without his pain-in-the-ass little brother, a burden.

Sam wished he was gone, anywhere but there in that moment, so Dean wouldn't be haunted by a reminder of his lost family.

The air shimmering wings extended fully in a split second before Sam felt the grace pull, tripping and blundering his way through time and space. Sam landed hard on his feet, as if he'd taken an ill-advised jump from a rooftop, and collapsed to his hands and knees, breathing hard from the sudden exertion and trying to quell his rolling stomach.

Neatly cut lawn grass pricked the palm of his hands, as he pushed himself to his feet, swaying unsteadily.

He looked around, trying to identify where he accidentally transported—_flew— _himself to in that moment of blind desperation, and froze.

Sam knew where he was. He couldn't forget the blissful ignorance and the memories he made here, his first and last hope for a normal life.

He couldn't forget Jessica_._

_._

—ooOoo—

.


	3. Creature Comforts

Chapter 3: Creature Comforts

* * *

_"How dare you!" Michael roared, his true form blazing white-gold, ripping away from Adam's body as they fell, flew, rose, through the vast cage, "How dare you deny His plan! Abomination, what gives you the right to deny the fate He gave you."_

_Sam's felt his ear drums burst like a flimsy balloon under the assault of a hurricane and his eyes burned as he squinted at Michael's true form that encompassed his whole vision; on some level he was glad he could still vaguely hear and see at all, instead of having his senses blinded before the archangel's majestic form._

_"He gave me, us, _humans_, free will. I made a choice, and Winchesters always finish what they started." Sam shouted over the ringing in his ears, the screeching of broken violin strings._

_Sam felt something jerk inside him, his unwilling passenger attempting to claw his way out of the box of cherished childhood memories Sam had locked him in. Sam flailed uselessly, trying desperately to alleviate the excruciating pain as Lucifer literally yanked and pulled at his soul until he found an escape, a tear._

_Once the crack had been widened, Lucifer ripped himself free from the confines of Sam's soul and flesh, spilling out in waves to meet his older brother without any constraints between them, a multi-dimensional silver-blue light form of divine intent as Lucifer would later describe himself._

_It was too much for Sam. __All of it. _

_Hurting Dean, letting Bobby and Castiel be killed, Ellen and Jo's sacrifice, the prospect of being trapped in the cage for eternity, the pain of just being in the presence of the two immensely powerful beings, it was all just too much for Sam to bear._

_So he shut his eyes, feeling the tears dry on his cheeks from the wind that buffeted his body as he fell, flew, ascended, he wasn't too sure anymore, and waited it hit the ground. _

_The sound of a blaring organ joined the screeching of violin strings, orchestrating a cacophony of chaos as the two masses of light launched at each other in a furious dance. _

_Sam curled into a tight ball, hugging his knees to his chest, and clung to the amulet that weighed heavily around his neck._

_Dean was safe. _

_That was all that mattered._

_…_

_Lucifer had visited him again, Michael had evidently gone to sulk at the other end of the cage after a not-so-friendly disagreement that degenerated into another one of their many 'spats.' _

_He was considerate enough to take the form of his old vessel, Nick, so as not to cause Sam any undue pain before his 'majestic multi-dimensional blah blah blah.'_

_Sam laid on the floor, there not being much else to do with The Grey stretching endlessly around him, fog obscuring his vision in the far distance. _

_Sam had expected pain, torture, and flames so hot they melted the skin off his bones, Lucifer had commented how cliche that was, that there were different tortures for different people, unconventional, novel ways to make souls break, and the cage would reflect that._

_Apparently, the cage thought Sam would break with boredom._

_"What do you want, Lucifer?" Sam asked tiredly, he was drained from the monotony interrupted only by the far off flashes of light from Michael and Lucifer's spats, or Lucifer's occasional visits. Sometimes he wished Lucifer would allow Michael torture him just to make him feel something besides exhaustion and boredom._

_"…Michael told me what happened to Adam." Lucifer started, looking down at Sam's prone form with pity and sadness, his vessel that held so much life and will to oppose him, that he grudgingly admired for his strength, having dwindled to this weary shell._

_Sam sat up instantly, he'd searched and searched for Adam in the first years, first decades, but he had all but given up, despair and hopelessness making him weak and fatigued. He only continued to walk, search, to keep up appearances, he didn't expect to find anyone or anything in The Grey._

_"Where is he? Is he okay?" Sam felt the first stirrings of hope in his chest, an emotion he hadn't had the pleasure to feel in years, the chill that had seeped into his limbs making them sluggish and weak seeming to vanish in a moment. _

_Lucifer was silent. In the years he had visited Sam, rushing between him and Michael, Sam had never seen Lucifer so… human: contrite, sad, and sympathetic._

_Sam knew the answer before Lucifer opened his mouth._

_"He broke, Sam, years ago. Adam is gone."_

_No. The cage knew Sam would break with hopelessness._

_…_

_"Sam, I found an exit."_

_The amulet clinked teasingly as Sam's cold, prone form twitched._

_…_

_Michael grinned maliciously as he offered to fly Sam to the edge of the cage, wearing the face of his lost little brother just to spite him. _

_They both knew what would happen, what the consequences would be if Sam accepted. Lucifer warned Sam not to, but he was so tired of walking, he wanted to get out, to see Dean again after so long._

_Sam accepted._

_Kneeling from the weight of despair that buckled his knees, he stared uncomprehending at the circle of blood he had drawn more than two decades ago, the circle that marked his starting point._

_"Oops. My bad."_

_Sam didn't hear the flutter of Michael's wings as he left to gloat to his brother, all he could hear was his own harsh breathing as tears burned in his eyes and desolation overwhelmed his soul. He was so exhausted, The Cold quickly closed in and stiffened his once warm body, a painful, almost numbing, sensation lacing through his muscles like ice. _

_He collapsed there beside the circle, the start, and fell into the first illusion._

_…_

_Not-Dean wrapped an arm around his chest, constraining instead of comforting. Not-Bobby placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping Sam still on his couch in a house that should have been home. Empty reassurances passed their lips like deceptively gentle showers before a hurricane._

_It was the eighth time Sam had woken up on Not-Bobby's couch, and he didn't deal with it any better than he had the first time. Sam hugged his knees, burying his face in his arms in a useless attempt to hide, to block out the lies and false hope, clinging to the familiar amulet in desperation._

_"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real."_

_Not-Bobby's house melted and faded into The Grey just as Dean—_Not-Dean_—pulled a knife._

—oOo—

Sam jolted awake, shivering and covered in cold sweat. He stared at the grey ceiling, stained with time and unidentifiable liquids, unseeing in the dim light of pre-dawn hours.

The Grey.

The Cold.

Sam jerked to the side, almost hyperventilating in distress, desperate hands clawing at the light switch on the bed side table to banish the memories. Flicking on the harsh florescent lamp, he shook helplessly, feeling a chill seep into his sweat soaked limbs originating from under the loose door and the broken seal of the frosted window.

With a fleeting thought, the wings curled protectively around him, effectively warming him and cutting out the cold—_not The Cold, just regular winter chill— _and Sam clung to the amulet for reassurance and comfort.

_It's not real._

He sat there for several long minutes, keeping his eyes open and trained on the light, evening out his breath, and trying to break the 'illusion' just to know he can't.

_It's not real._

The Grace writhed under his skin, like lightning and heat traveling pleasantly through his veins, anticipating its use in his distress, but with each deep, even breath, it calmed to its usual swirling mass nestled comfortably beside his heart.

_This is real. I'm out._

With that last affirmation, Sam pried his aching hand off the amulet, briefly registering the red imprint pressed deeply into his palm with crescent moon indents surrounding it, and got off the bed to stretch; the first morning rays streaked through the blinds throwing the room in a red-orange haze.

As he pulled the kinks out of his stiff muscles, his invisible wings flared out to their full span in response, phasing intangibly through the walls of the small destitute motel room he had opted to stay for the night.

He'd gotten used to the grace and the wings over the last two months, since he awoke alone in Stull Cemetery. The warmth was so different from what he felt briefly in waves that broke The Cold, hope had banished The Cold, and as he had continued to walk for centuries hope dwindled to nothing until he fell into an illusion, the illustrious vivid dreams, and shattered them with the renewed determination to get home.

The wings and grace reassured him that he was out, that this was real.

_You're a monster, 're not you anymore. And there's no going back._

Sam flinched, Dean's voice laced with vitriol and disdain reverberating as he instantly snapped the wings back and allowed them to sink into his skin, rolling his shoulders to ease the odd feeling of weight vanishing.

It had been two months since he awoke and yesterday was the third time Sam had checked up on Dean, to make sure he was happy and that there were no hunts in the area.

It was a lie.

Sam knew the more he visited the greater chance that Dean would see him, but he couldn't stay away, the ache in his chest that was purely Dean alleviated a bit when he saw him, before another pain took its place.

-oOo-

_This time, the third check-up, Sam watched Dean play golf, _golf _of all things in the winter, he could almost hear Dean's response—_Shut it, Sam, It's a sport_— with a few buddies from work. Apparently trying to keep up their game during the off season, from the few words Sam could hear from the distance._

_Sam just stood there, unmoving with bated breath, as Dean turned toward him after making a successful swing, grinning widely as he punched his friend's arm in jest. _

_Dean's eyes slid right over him._

_Sam's heart seized with an odd mixture of resentment and relief._

Thank God Dean didn't see him.

But Dean couldn't have forgotten what his brother looked like, right?

_Sometimes, right before The Cold took hold and dragged him into another dream, another illusion, another _lie_, Sam could barely remember what Dean looked like or what he wore or what his voice sounded like, all of it had faded into oblivion, at times he couldn't even remember the color of Dean's eyes. _

_Sam may have had decades, centuries of time in The Grey for the memories fade, but he would always be reminded after an illusion, because Sam could tell instantly that Not-Dean wasn't his brother. _

_He'd remember all of Dean's different smiles and emotionless masks that were never blank to Sam, his cheesy one liners that made Sam snort and smile regardless of how he tried to suppress it, the smell of his leather jacket and cheap motel soap, all the details were renewed and clung to with desperation, just to be buffeted and weathered with time again and again. _

_After every dream, he would continue walking forward with restored resolve and faith, because he _had_ to find his brother, to see him again, to find his way home._

_But it had only been 8 months for Dean, when it was a countless number of centuries for Sam. What excuse could he have._

_Turning away from Dean, from his happiness, from his normality, Sam trudged down the neighborhood that the golf course was nestled in, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his canvas jacket, and the wings settling absently on his back, blocking out the cutting breeze and fending off unpleasant memories of The Cold._

_A bus trundled toward him, weighed down by a dozen passengers, the thick black tires sticking briefly to the uneven pavement, leaving black scars to fade with the next rain or snow. Sam tracked its movement inadvertently, turning to glance at the local dentistry ad with an obnoxious smiling family plastered imperfectly on the side, and abruptly halted his brooding pace._

_The bus growled past, but Sam couldn't prevent the image, the lack of image, from being seared into eyes, making the stinging sensation in his eyes that he was steadfastly ignoring become much less of an issue._

_Alarmed, Sam ran up to the nearest house, which conveniently had one of those hideously expensive quadruple-layered-tinted-picture-windows that reflected well, and scrutinized his translucent image._

_Or at least tried to._

_Sam looked down, making dead sure that he can still see his own body, before squinting at the window in a useless attempt to meet his reflection's eyes. He waved at the window. _

_Reflection-Sam didn't wave back._

_Because Reflection-Sam didn't exist._

_Sighing with dismay, he turned away from the window, walked a few paces, before rushing back to wave frantically at his lack of reflection, as if dancing and freaking out in front of some poor old woman's ridiculously large window like a lunatic would break the sudden onset of invisibility. _

_It didn't._

_Wonderful._

_Taking a deep breath—_it's been two months, he should be used to this_— Sam stared hard into the window, feeling the grace that had been pulsing through his whole body at the distress of seeing Dean, and carefully reined it in to circle around his heart where it usually nestled, waiting for its moments of use. _

_Reflection-Sam was abruptly glaring at him, nose to nose, Sam jerked back in surprise and Reflection-Sam followed suit, mocking him with an identical look of shock, his floppy hair flying into his eyes._

_Sam turned away from his own derisive face, and continued his march down the neighborhood to where he parked his car a few streets over._

So he could turn invisible. Great. How much more of a freak could he be?

_The wings shifted awkwardly, reacting to his scorn. _

_Sam jolted, again, chastising himself for forgetting about them, and snapped them back into his body, the chill suddenly cutting through his jacket despite the layers, making him shiver. He hugged his arms around himself, a cruel facsimile of the previous comfort, and pulled the jacket tighter around his shoulders, trying to keep the less than pleasant memories at bay._

_Sam had gotten used to the wings and the grace. _

_He shouldn't have._

_Dean had warned him not to use any of his freaky powers when all he had were visions._

If I didn't know you, I would want to hunt you.

_He'd spent only six months as a human, before Yellow-Eyes turned him into an abomination, a curse on his family. Then he started drinking demon blood, to try to utilize that curse for good —_how self-righteous_— and he turned into a _bloodsucking freak, a monster—a vampire.

_Now he has this _grace_ inside him, making him _something_, certainly not human or demon or angel._

_Uriel was right._

_Sam didn't even know if the grace scrubbed his blood clean of Azazel's curse, it could still be in him for all he knew, just waiting for a single slip up, a moment of weakness, before rearing its ugly head to promise new lies._

_And he used this grace, this new curse, for creature comforts, for warmth and solace, to keep the memories at bay._

_God, he was so weak._

_What would Dean think._

-oOo-

Sam stepped out of the weak shower spray, shaking his head to banish the morbid thoughts of Dean as he toweled himself off quickly to avoid the chill from the tile creeping into his shower warmed limbs.

Dean was safe. That was all that mattered.

Yesterday, Sam had picked up a newspaper in Cicero at the gas station as he got the hell out of dodge and noticed a potential hunt on the third page, nothing particularly difficult, just a routine haunting.

A few kids had camped out in the old desolate house on a dare, that was rumored to be haunted by the old man that lived there fifty years ago, and got a bit more than what they bargained for. A couple broken ribs, a fractured arm from being pushed into rotted furniture and thrown off the slanting porch, nothing a few months won't fix, but the one African-American kid was shaken from the whole ordeal and claimed 'a ghost tried to lynch him.' It made a good story, and the local papers ate it up.

Sam thought it sounded plausible. He'd salted 'n' burned his fair share of racist vengeful spirits that have a penchant for continuing their 'work' in the afterlife.

Thus Sam was an hour from Cicero in Muncie, headed out at barely eight o'clock, to do a bit of digging in the library archives, a few interviews as a reporter, and—voila!—he'd have a date with grave desecration tonight.

Open shut. Piece of cake.

And for the most part it was, it wasn't difficult to make the witnesses talk, teenage boys loved to talk about their 'brush with death' to more than the tiny local newspaper, their eyes trained on a couple of girls in the coffee shop as they loudly embellished tales of bravery, pain, and the ever alluring supernatural.

The tale of the decrepit house was a local legend, something to scare the children at night from sneaking out of the house. It looked the part too, with the broken windows, slanting roof, rotting floor boards, peeling paint and dead grass surrounding the property. The young librarian aide enjoyed telling the tall, handsome, 'reporter' the many versions of the legend, surreptitiously leaning just a bit too far for a bit too long over the table when talking to Sam, not that he really noticed. Between Dean, the hunt, the grace, and _Dean_, his thoughts were a bit too preoccupied to be thinking with his downstairs brain.

Although he could imagine that Dean would have jumped right on that perky blonde in an instant, winking obnoxiously, lowering his voice to something that could vaguely interpreted as 'sexy,' and claiming that scoring her number was for follow-up questions. Probably teasing Sam about loosening up as they walked out, and making lewd comments about nighttime activities and librarian kinks.

God, he missed Dean. He just wished he could have his brother again to make those comments and act unprofessional, Sam wouldn't even be irritated. But, Dean was happy with Lisa and Ben, and Sam was on a case, alone.

Apparently, Ole Man Jerry, as the local incorrectly deemed him, his real name was Joseph Gordon, had been buried behind the house under the big oak tree. There had been so much fluff and meaningless chatter prior to that point that Sam mainly tuned out her annoyingly high pitched voice, squiggling doodles of sigils convincingly on the notepad and humming in affirmation when she paused, but he eventually dragged the information out of her, and, unfortunately, her number.

Dean would have loved that.

Sam arrived there a little after midnight, discouraging the spirit with a few well placed salt round from the shotgun, he got pushed around a few times, but nothing actually painful. He easily dug up the shallow grave and salted 'n' burned the racist bastard, easy as pie.

He climbed into his car, throwing the weapons in the trunk with the others he had bought a few months ago after he decided to continue hunting, and cruised back to the dilapidated motel he was staying at. He rode on the hunting high and adrenaline rush, speeding on the open road, glad there was no injury to patch up.

As he stepped out of the car and walked toward his motel room door, the grace fluttered weakly in his chest like the soft beats of butterfly wings, gentle and nearly unnoticeable.

Sam halted abruptly, spinning around in an attempt to identify what the grace reacted to, usually it flinched and flickered with a distinct sense of alarm when danger was near, from angels, demons, and monsters alike, but this weak fluttering wasn't anything he had encountered before.

Hand straying to the small of his back that concealed his gun, Sam continued to scrutinize the surrounding darkness with a practiced eye, until a quiet pained whimper yanked his attention to the corner of the motel.

Cautiously, he eased around the dirt encrusted brick wall to identify the creature Sam had heard. The weak piteous whines continued as he assessed the creature and came to a decision in a heartbeat, not that his conscience would allow him to act differently.

Picking the tiny filthy critter, he bundled it into his hotel room, cradling it against his shoulder for a moment to jam the rusted key into the lock and opened the door.

The mews halted in an almost startled way as Sam turned on the lamp.

He gently carried it to the bathroom and set the grimy, almost unrecognizable, thing—a skinny, emaciated little cat—carefully on the damp towel he had used that morning; he set to work with a wet wash cloth, trying to clean off most of the mud and filth and determine the worst of the damage.

Sam grimaced in sympathy when the cat hissed as he gingerly wiped down his front paw, and he cooed comfortingly, keeping a running tally of injuries on the cat, so far it seemed that all it had suffered was a broken leg, a few deep scratches and an odd mostly healed scar beneath its rib cage, other than that it was completely tuckered out—poor thing— and could barely keep its eyes open.

He left briefly to fetch some bandages and a couple motel pencils and apologized quietly, whispering words of comfort in response to the pained hisses, as he wrapped a make-shift splint around the cat's leg after setting it.

Sam began setting up a nest of towels in the dry tub for the night, but the blondish-brown cat turned its wide sorrowful honey-toffee colored eyes on Sam and he _really _was not equipped to resist such adorable kitty-cat eyes.

Now don't get him wrong, Sam was a dog person, definitely, no doubt about it.

And_ no, _this was not a token protest to defend his masculinity.

Cats were fine, he just never gave them much thought, dogs are just kind of his go-to when thinking about pets. After all they could be useful during hunts (although no matter how he begged John or Dean they would swear to hell and back that a dog was more trouble than it was worth) and dogs always made it painfully obvious how much they love their owners.

Cats, as Dean put it, were 'stuck-up assholes meant for stuck-up assholes… or girls.' If anyone ever asked him the age old question, the question more notorious than 'which came first, the chicken or the egg,' the small talk question that could start riots, 'cats or dogs' he would without a moment of hesitation reply 'dogs.'

_Sam is such a wuss._

With a token of reluctance and a soft smile, he moved the nest from the cold tub to the area of stained carpet in front of the small heater across from the bed, turning the heat up a bit in the hope it might help dry its fur from the impromptu spit bath.

The cat attempted to stare him into oblivion as Sam gently carried it to the new location of its towel nest, there was no meow of thanks or purr of appreciation as it settled into the warm towels, instead it turned away from him, closed its eyes and burrowed into the nest with a self-important little huff.

Sam snorted, none too impressed, and changed his clothes to sweats and a soft long sleeve shirt for sleeping. He settled in between the sheets and comforter, that was more scratchy than anything remotely comfortable, and reached for the lamp switch on the bedside table, flicking it off.

Immediately the darkness fell upon him and closed in on all sides, clawing, biting, scratching at him, steely painful reminders of The Grey and The Cold that made him scrabble for the amulet on his chest and reach blindly for the light switch, raking miscellaneous items to the stained carpet in his haste.

The light eased the sudden panic that seized his heart and banished the visions in an instant, leaving vague echoes that cowered in the dark corners of the room, pawing languidly, sinisterly at the edges of the lamp glow.

One hand still clutched the amulet, and Sam felt so _weak _letting the memories get to him like that.

Dean functioned fine after hell, and he was physically _and_ psychologically tortured for forty years continuously; Sam had long breaks between falling in the illusions, and when he fell it was his own damn fault. Dean was hurt, sure, and had nightmares, but he moved on and got past it like he always did. But it's been two months and Sam couldn't even stand the darkness.

A questioning meow that edged toward irritation drew his attention to the new addition in the corner of the room, selfishly hogging the meager heat. Toffee colored eyes glowed in the semi-darkness, seeming much more astute than a cat had the right to be.

"Sorry," Sam whispered breathlessly into the drafty motel room, the harsh fluorescent lighting sending most of his face into shadow as he tilted his head down to gaze shamefully at the glinting brass amulet, "It's okay. It's fine."

He met the toffee eyes across the room that had softened for a moment, in what could have been interpreted as sympathy, then glared reproachfully as if to say, '_bullshit_.'

Sam swallowed, turning away from the admonishment —_Geez. He's being told off by a freakin' cat_— and amended his previous statement, "Okay, not really."

"Sorry, I'm—," He started and began picking up the items thrown none too gently to the floor in his earlier panic, —_wow, now he's talking to a cat, he need to get out more_— "I'm just gonna leave the light on."

Sam stretched over to his duffle thankfully within arms reach, not wanting to leave the scratchy warmth of the comforter, and dragged out an obnoxious mustard-yellow soft sweatshirt with a faded image of a cassette printed on the front. He had fished it out of a bin in a second-hand store a month ago; it was the only thing in his size, actually it was a little big for him, but it suited his purpose.

Sam heard the cat snort quietly in the corner as he pulled the atrocious sweatshirt over his head, yanking it down to settle in all its stretched-out glory to his thighs, the sleeves falling to his fingertips, and soft fabric wrapping loosely around his torso.

Toffee eyes glittered with something akin to amusement in the low light as if to say sarcastically, '_really? Good choice, I think you need more ketchup to go with that mustard, though_.'

"Shut it," Sam muttered to the cat —_the _cat_, Sam, stop talking to it— _and he turned away, basking into the moderate warmth of the not-so-comforting comforter.

Sam lightly tapped a steady rhythm on the brass amulet as he stared at the dimly illuminated ceiling and played absently with the stretched sleeves like an insecure teenager, waiting for sleep to snatch him away and deliver him to nightmares, memories, and, if he was lucky, mediocre rest.

The sweatshirt reminded Sam of when he was a kid, before he shot up past Dean, and frequently received Dean's worn second-hand jackets as hand-me-downs; Sam would always complain and act reluctant, but he loved those well-worn hoodies and soft sweaters.

When Dean would be on a hunt with John all night and nightmares would torment him without Dean to keep them at bay, Sam would bundle up in one of those too-big sweatshirts, sometimes going as far as to borrow one of Dean's recently worn ones, and lay in bed, comforted by the soft warmth and barely detectable smell of leather, steel, and cheap soap, the scent of home.

Sometimes Sam would close his eyes when wearing the too-big mustard sweater and convince himself that he was home, that he was still that tiny innocent creature that was worthy of being comforted by his big brother.

But he wasn't, not anymore, and he hasn't been in a long time.

.

—ooOoo—

.


	4. Just One Thing at a Time, Please

Chapter 4: Just One Thing at a Time, Please

* * *

_"Sam."_

_"Lucifer!" Sam spun around in shock, one hand flying to the small of his back where Ruby's Knife or his Taurus usually rested, as if any of those would have an effect on the fallen archangel before him wearing Nick's face. _

_It had only been a week since he hit the ground of the cage, a grey expanse of nothingness that surrounded him on all sides, and Sam had started to search for Adam, who he expected had landed somewhere nearby once Michael tore himself from the constraining vessel. _

_But so far, there was nothing except the grey and the haze of fog in the distance, no sign of Adam, and no sign of the other two besides the occasional flash of light scattered by the haze like far-off lightning in a dry spring thunderstorm._

_"What do you want?" Sam asked curtly, his voice a bit raspy from disuse, he knew Michael couldn't keep Lucifer occupied forever, but he'd expected he had a few weeks before they got bored of each other and came after him or Adam. After all, they had millennia of history apart to catch up on, Sam was sure they wouldn't run out of arguing topics for at least a century._

_A hard knot of dread coiled in his stomach as Sam guessed that now was the time for the torture and excruciatingly hot flames of hell to start, and everything that was supposed to come with being stuck for eternity in a cage with the devil and his pissed-off older brother._

_"Michael's off to sulk, you know how brothers can get, and I got bored just waiting for him to get over himself." Lucifer explained shortly, extending his arms out a bit as if presenting himself to Sam, "so how's hell for you?"_

_"Grey." Sam replied confused, still tense with anticipation. He expected accusations like Michael roared when they were first flung in there, not this odd civility._

_"Really? Interesting, I expected you to be reliving your most cherished moments. You know the ones: Dean being ripped to shreds by hellhounds, beating him almost to death with your own hands, splattering Castiel like overripe fruit, breaking Singer's neck…"_

_Sam curled his hands into fists, his nails biting deeply into his palms._

_Lucifer paused, sending Sam a side-eyed glance with a self-satisfied smirk firmly in place. "All those lovely memories."_

_"Well I expected a land of clowns and midgets riding pink unicorns that shot rainbows from their asses. Guess we can't always get what we want." Sam quipped back, not really processing that he was snarking at the freakin' Devil. _

_He pushed the anger back, this he could deal with, it wasn't any different than when Lucifer haunted his dreams. Sticks and stones and all that crap. Plus, if he was going to be tortured, he damn well wasn't going to make it easy._

_Lucifer laughed. Honest to G-, well honest to _someone, _threw his head back and guffawed, completing the perverted hysterical imagery by leaning over with his hands on his knees and clutching his stomach giggling like a freakin' teenager on a sugar high. _

_It really wasn't that funny._

_Or maybe Lucifer liked the Rolling Stones reference._

_"Ahhh. This is what I've been missing with Michael. Humor! Sarcasm! Pop-culture! I swear, all he talks about is Him and His plan, it's endless, I'd think he has no personality if I didn't know him before." Lucifer declared, still somewhat breathless with the occasional chuckle._

_"What do you want?" Sam reiterated, deciding not to touch any of that with a ten foot pole, and tried to get the conversation back on track._

_"I'm bored," Lucifer repeated with a heavy sigh, like the whole world would fall apart under the strain of his immense boredom, "you are somewhat entertaining for a cockroach, at least more so than Michael and his self-righteous ego."_

_Sam tensed, waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Lucifer's demure cocky smile to turn sinister, waiting for him to snap up knives and restraints tailored for his convenience and Sam's imminent pain._

_"Let's talk. You can snark, I'll answer. I won't be bored anymore. Win-win." Lucifer gestured wide with his palms up in a ridiculous facsimile of peace and being unarmed. "I'll be gone as soon as Michael decides to stop moping."_

_Sam was hesitant to agree, agreeing with the devil, on principle, is a very bad idea. Most likely, it was a trick to lull him into a false sense security, but if he got a few more hours of torture-less freedom to keep searching, then who was he to complain._

_"I want to keep walking," Sam replied instead, taking care to avoid agreeing directly._

_"I've heard that walking and talking is something that even you lowly ameoba can do." Lucifer answered with that annoying arrogant smirk._

_Sam didn't even dignify that with an answer, just turned and started marching steadily in the same direction as before, assuming that Lucifer would follow._

_They walked in a tense silence, or at least tense for Sam, Lucifer just sauntered next to him with that conceited half-smirk, sending side-eyed glances at Sam rather frequently, as if the silent walk through the grey was the most interesting event in the last week._

_"Where's Adam?" Sam asked eventually without glancing at Lucifer, a little desperate for anything to break the silence, and continued to scan the endless grey and distant fog for any sign of his little brother._

_"I don't know, and I don't really care. I was only able to sense where you were, because you're my true vessel." Lucifer replied slyly, hands shoved in pockets as he continued to match Sam's wide strides with ease. "And I've been in you, it doesn't take much to track the feel of your soul now." _

_Sam resolutely ignored the innuendo. "Would Michael know?"_

_"No. Adam was never destined to be a vessel, so there's no 'string of fate' connecting them, not like we have."_

_Sam shot him an irritated glare for the word choice, and scrapped the half-assed plan of confronting Michael to find Adam with a bit of relief. He had momentarily debated whether or not Michael would answer his question before or after dismembering him._

_"Fine," Sam sighed. He'll just have to cover as much ground as possible and hope that he got to Adam before the others did._

_"But if you try sometimes, you get what you need."_

_Ah. He did like the Stones reference._

_…_

_"Sam." A flap of bird wings announcing a presence directly behind Sam._

_"Lucifer," Sam responded in leu of a greeting, his voice barely more than a whisper._

_Lucifer assessed the man hunched over before him and wordlessly matched his stride to Sam's slow but steady pace, as if he was wading through molasses._

_It had been about four years, if Lucifer was to be trusted since Sam couldn't exactly tell, and there was no sign of Adam, not even the barest hint, a shoe scuff on the grey or a blot of blood, absolutely nothing. _

_Sam still searched, but the persistent, almost frantic pace he had set in the first year had dwindled to a slow march, the cold that didn't bother him until recently seeping into his limbs. But he never stopped to rest, Sam felt he owed Adam that much, after all the older brother is supposed to take care of the younger one, he still hoped to find Adam one day._

_The monotony had only been broken by the flashes in the distance from the archangels' 'brotherly spats' as Lucifer put it, and Lucifer's sporadic visits that could span from a few minutes to a couple weeks depending on how 'moody' Michael was acting. He would arrive with the barest sound of a wing beat to alert Sam to his presence, sometimes he was in a self-righteous pissed-off King of Hell mood, other times he was somber and reticent._

_"Why haven't you tortured me yet?" Sam asked, hoping that Lucifer wasn't waiting for that very question to begin aforementioned pain, torture and skin melting fire. The question had lodged itself firmly in the back of his mind in the last few years, but he never had the gall to ask. _

_Now, Sam just didn't really care anymore, he was tired and cold and couldn't find Adam. _

_He was beginning to think he would never find his little brother._

_Lucifer shot him an smirk that could almost be classified as a smile, it was enough to shock Sam into halting his ceaseless wade, all of Lucifer's expressions had ranged from an arrogant smirk laced with mild amusement to a hard frown with hooded eyes, but nothing that even hinted to a genuine smile._

_"I was waiting for you to ask. I thought you would breakdown with curiosity a couple years ago, guess I underestimated you." Lucifer started, "You are my true vessel, specially tailored from centuries of merging significant bloodlines, and you were made to be like me, just like your older brother was destined to reflect Michael."_

_Sam interrupted vehemently, "we're nothing like you."_

_"Yes, you are," Lucifer responded easily, unaffected by the smoldering anger in Sam's eyes and tenseness in his shoulders, and turned to meet Sam's glare. "Dean Winchester, the older brother, the good son, the soldier, the leader, the one who doesn't question, the righteous one, the one with angels at his beck and call. Sam Winchester, the younger brother, the rebel, the tainted one, the one who dares to question and doubt his father, the one who looks for something more than what his father wills, who was cast out, the one with demons on his shoulder. Sound familiar?"_

_Sam's teeth ground together and his fists clenched tightly, but otherwise his face was kept carefully blank, a furious fire smoldering in the depths of his eyes._

_"Shut up." He said slowly, enunciating the syllables, but kept his voice even and quiet._

_"You see, you were supposed to be like me, in every way, in every decision. You were tailor made by the fates to reflect me." Lucifer insisted, head tilting to the side just a bit, reminiscent of a mildly confused bird, "but, you aren't, not quite."_

_Lucifer continued, turning away from Sam's confused narrowed eyes at the acquiescence, "You care, you believe, you have _faith, _not despite everything that's happened to you, but because of it. You were supposed to be corrupted, to lose faith, to be apathetic, and even _want _to watch the world burn. It was your fate, your destiny. Millennia of careful manipulations getting trashed in one instant, because you chose to rebel, again, you chose to deny your fate and refuse to say 'yes.'_

_Except, of course, at the very end, but you were able to take control over _me, _Lucifer, Morningstar, fallen angel, Ruler of Hell, Prince of Darkness, Father of Lies, Blasphemer, Tempter of Mankind, the being man fears above all, you were able to _lock me away_. I underestimated you, Michael did too, all the angels did, we underestimated the power of free will, and look where we are now."_

_Lucifer took a deep breath from his tirade and plastered on his trade mark smirk, although it looked like a poor imitation to Sam after having spent four years on the receiving end, "quite frankly, you are a complex creature. You're interesting, for a mud monkey. I get more entertainment talking to you than I would eviscerating you, there are only so many ways to tear a person apart before it becomes dull, I'll have you know. Not to mention, the cage tailors itself to your worst fear, whatever will break you in the most painful way, I don't need to bother getting my hands dirty."_

_Sam latched onto the last comment, not wanting to touch Lucifer's tirade with a freakin' 200 foot crane, apparently he had guts to show up 'The Great Luci' and his destiny and that scored him major brownie points or something._

_"So you don't see the grey, the nothingness around us?" _

_His fake smirk twitched downward and his eyes became distant as he swept a gaze over the expanse of the cage, but nothing else belayed what he saw, what imagined tortures the cage formed for him._

_"No, not quite."_

_And so the grey became The Grey._

_…_

_A quiet flutter of wings broke the silence, no words passed between the two as the archangel matched the man's slow undeviating march. It had been maybe sixty years since the jump, minutes bled into hours and days with only Lucifer's occasional companionship and the echo of heavy Cold seeped into his limbs and began to anchor him to the ground, succeeding as Sam stumbled over the smooth surface and collapsed on the floor._

_"Mark it, Sam." Lucifer prompted, his face carefully emotionless._

_Sam said nothing, talking threatened to sap too much energy away from the task Lucifer reminded him of. Pulling his hand to his face, his arm feeling like dragging a hundred pounds of lead through molasses, and bit hard enough on his thumb to draw blood, inadvertently giving his energy levels a tiny boost from the sudden pain._

_Squinting through the haze of eyelashes and sleep fog, he watched as Lucifer pointed in the direction he had been walking, and Sam drew a shaky arrow with his blood on the grey hard floor in the same direction. _

_His eyes began drifting shut to succumb to The Cold that had taken hold, but Lucifer tapped his cheek a few times to get his attention before he could fall. He none-too-gently yanked on the amulet around Sam's neck, letting the leather string cut deep into the back of his neck, and harshly wrapped one of Sam's limp hands around it._

_"Remember why you jumped, Sam. Remember why you have to keep walking. Remember Dean." Lucifer said the words without inflection or meaning, as if he was repeating a time-worn message, and kept eye contact with Sam for as long as possible._

Who's Dean?

_Sam drifted away into the wonderfully, horribly vivid dream._

…

_"What's Heaven like for angels?" Sam asked one day when Lucifer visited after another bout and subsequent sulk with Michael. It was year six by Sam's inner clock, almost year seven._

_Lucifer smirked, his 'almost-a-smile-smirk' that was tinged with sadness, and began to paint a beautiful picture of the creation of the world and heaven from the beginning of his existence with almost undetectable longing in his eyes._

_…_

_"Enochian. You want me to teach you Enochian." Lucifer repeated dubiously, giving Sam a side-eyed glance with a thoughtful frown pulling at the corners of his mouth._

_"Why not? Your bragging is interesting enough, but… let's switch it up a bit." Sam elaborated with a shrug. _

_The stories Lucifer told were brilliant, not that Sam would ever admit it, but they ranged from informative but biased to sparse historical fact with long proud anecdotes. Lucifer had a penchant for story telling. _

_He would have made a decent kindergarten teacher if he didn't want to destroy all of mankind, including obnoxious but innocent toddlers._

_"I don't believe your limited tongue can form all the syllables. Some are layered and need multiple tones simultaneously to create the correct inflection or accent." He paused, and mulled the idea over for a bit. _

_It could have been a few moments or an hour, and they continued to walk in companionable silence._

_Lucifer huffed in amusement and resignation._

_"I won't disrespect the language by teaching you the bastardized human version. It barely classifies as Enochian."_

_Lucifer crossed his arms, turning his face away from Sam, an entirely human gesture of reluctant aquiescence, probably learned from Sam over the last few centuries._

_Sam smiled. "We'll just have to figure it out then."_

_…_

_Sam blinked. And again. The saccharine blue sky shone obnoxiously as he levered himself up to a sitting position, his bones creaking from disuse, taking in the scenery of Stull Cemetery just as he remembered it when he took the swan dive with Lucifer having one hell of a temper tantrum in the backseat._

_"Sam!" A shout echoed across the empty plain, an achingly familiar voice pleading desperately into the air._

It's not real.

_Shutting his eyes, Sam clung to the amulet, to the promise, trying to ignore all the lies and concentrating on finding, getting to what's true, not this pale imitation._

It's not real.

_"Sammy!" The voice was drawing closer now, and he could almost hear the pants from the owner carried quietly on the disgustingly gentle breeze._

It's not real.

_The saturated scenery splintered and The Grey surged through the cracks just as Not-Dean squeezed his hand viciously on Sam's shoulder, a promise for what's to come._

_Lucifer greeted him with a short nod and his ever-present smirk when Sam awoke with his hand still clutched desperately around the amulet and the remnants tears burned his eyes. _

_Lucifer wordlessly offered his hand._

_Sam took it._

-oOo-

Sam awoke with a sharp intake of breath, his sheets and loose sweater tangled around him like binding ropes and he was damp with a fine layer of cold sweat, just like he had every day since he'd slipped through the cracks.

And as always, he had his long moment of panic, of not being able to distinguish reality from the cage. He clutched the cool brass amulet that clinked teasingly on his chest, drew his knees up to his chest, the wings inadvertently furling around him, comforting and warm, and he repeated the mantra under his breath just to make sure it couldn't work.

"It's not real. It's not real. It's not real."

_God, I hope it's real._

An indignant but curious meow sliced through the blood pounding in his ears. Sam was wrenched out of his panicked state, shivering with his arms hugging his knees and near-hyperventilation that had unfortunately become a routine.

His breathing settled, occasionally broken by an irregular gasp, and he peered down over the side of the bed, belatedly remembering the creature he had welcomed last night.

The cat languished on its throne of warm towels, glaring at Sam, _'tone it down, will you? I'm the one injured here, not you, hot shot.'_

"G'morning to you too, Toffee." Sam muttered sardonically, efficiently driven out of his panic by the creature's interruptions. The cat hissed in reply to the nickname.

The voice teased a vague memory in the back of Sam's mind, but he disregarded it as a figment of his imagination.

After all, the voice wasn't real.

He untangled himself from the binding scratchy sheets and fixed the sweater around his torso. Sam stretched, his arms reaching above his head and legs splaying out, his back cracked in relief from the previous tense posture, and the wings flared out, stretching and easing the ache Sam had felt in his shoulders.

Sam didn't terribly mind them at times like these. They helped ground him when reality and the cage became too difficult to tell apart.

He just didn't want to take advantage of them, use them when he shouldn't and become-

_A monster._

Barely a fleeting thought of Dean and the shame and self-incrimination forced him to relinquish the comfort, snapping them back with a grimace.

Sam shuffled out of bed, intent on starting the day despite the early hour with the first rays of sun slanting across the east side of the room through the stained curtains.

The cat hissed in protest when Sam switched on a few more lights and cracked open the curtain, swiping haphazardly with its uninjured paw at Sam's ankles as he passed to go to the bathroom.

He showered quickly under the lukewarm and unsteady spray, trying to plan out the rest of the day.

_I'll head East for now, check some newspapers at gas stations from potential hunts. But what am I gonna do with the cat? Guess I can leave it at a shelter on my way out of town, maybe take it to the vet for the broken leg._

Sam briefly toyed with the idea of keeping it, of not being alone during the nights anymore, but scrapped it after a few moments of consideration. He can't be responsible for another living creature when he doesn't have a home, and he's not exactly emotionally stable enough to care for a pet when he can barely take care of himself properly.

_Plus, the cat is kind of an asshole._

That was a major point against keeping the thing.

Idly towel drying his hair, Sam stepped out of the bathroom, naked as the day he was born and sidled over to his duffle.

A startled coughing noise erupted behind him, and Sam turned expecting the cat to be coughing up a hairball, but the cat just had its mouth open, toffee eyes seemingly wide and startled.

His eyebrows furrowed together curiously, trying to puzzle out the cat's strange expression before he just shrugged and turned back to the duffle. He flung the damp towel around his shoulders and bent down to shuffle through the contents of the bag in search for clean clothes.

The cat began purring lowly, its tail flips lazily back and forth as it stared at Sam and continued to lounge before the heater on its towel bed.

_'Mm. Nice. Very Proportional.' _

Sam spun around, clothes in hand, narrowing his eyes at the purring cat, whose gaze met his before languidly trailing downward.

He felt a flush work its way up his neck when he realized where it was staring and quickly covered himself.

The cat made an odd aborted noise between a purr and a cough, reminiscent of a laugh, when Sam beat a hasty retreat to safety of the bathroom, snatching up a bag of toiletries as he went.

_A cat did not just check me out._

Sam changed into his clean clothes quickly, feeling exposed despite the privacy of the bathroom, and set to brushing his teeth, pretending that was the reason he went to the bathroom in the first place.

_And I did not just run away from it._

_Dental hygiene is very important._

He scrutinized his reflection in the mirror, brushing vigorously at his teeth and feeling rather mortified with the blush still present of his face, and wished he could just disappear.

Reflection-Sam vanished.

Real-Sam jammed his toothbrush down his throat.

Sam hacked a mixture of saliva and toothpaste foam into the sink, hands clinging to the porcelain edges, and tried to gain control of his breathing. Taking a few deep breaths, not raising his eyes from the intricate light blue splatter and drip pattern in the bowl, he tried to quell the grace churning beneath his skin in response to his unstable emotions, remnants from the memories and the new addition.

Sam raised his eyes to look in the mirror.

He was still gone.

Slamming his eyes shut in frustration, he jerked the grace back, harshly lashing it back into place around his heart.

A searing tingle rushed through his extremities and lanced like lightning to his chest, Sam gasped in surprise and tightened his grip on edges of the porcelain sink, his knuckles turning white.

Several long moments passed, Sam could barely breathe as the lightning slowly receded, concentrating briefly on his chest before fading from the hot poker pain to the familiar sensation of pins-and-needles associated with a limb falling asleep.

Sam released the breath he didn't know he was holding once the moment passed; he looked up back into the mirror.

Reflection-Sam was back, suddenly looking haggard and covered in a thin layer of cold sweat.

Sam swallowed around the lump forming in his throat, his reflection reassured him by copying the motion.

Something similar had happened a few weeks ago, the same electric tingling sensation that formed a deep seated ache in Sam's chest, but at the time he had disregarded it as more evidence of being inhuman.

It had happened after another bout of accidental grace usage, and subsequent wrestle for control, now that Sam thought about.

Running a hand through his hair to try an assuage his growing distress and dismay, Sam sighed deeply.

_Something is wrong._

_'Well, what did you expect.' _ the thought crossed Sam's mind using a familiar sardonic voice, he could almost see the irritating little half-smirk, '_an easy transition from demonic abomination to angel hybrid? God given grace and demon blood make a mean cocktail, or so I've heard._

Sam relinquished his deathly grip on the porcelain sink and his hair, and instead scrubbed his hands hard across his face to banish the morbid whispers that echoed truth.

The grace has started to reject the vessel.

_God damn it._

He didn't want to deal with this.

He didn't _know _how to begin dealing with this.

All Sam wanted is one thing to happen at a time, he knew he can't stop the changes from occurring, but was it really too much to ask for only one life changing event to crop up at a time.

With his luck, the apocalypse was going to start up again.

Hopefully, without his unwitting help this time.

First, he was dropped into the cage, a mouse with two lions, and it turns out to be different from what he expected. Sam would never say it was better, but it was different.

Then he escaped, only to find a transplanted grace (because what else could it be) inside him, reacting to the smallest fits of emotion. It made Sam feel like a moody teenager going through puberty. He found out there are intangible wings that appear on his back at odd moments, he can fly, apparently, and he can disappear, just vanish from view with half a thought.

And now, here, in the bathroom of a no-name cheap motel in the tiny town of Muncie, he discovered that he's too tainted for God's grace to be housed in his body.

_A whole new level of freak._

Sam swipes his hair away from his face, staring hard in the mirror as his reflection copied the motion.

_Next thing I know, I'm gonna be able to read freakin' minds._

He froze, hand still laced though his hair in frustration, and his mouth dropped open at the sudden realization.

Hard earned hunter instincts roared into high gear, not allowing Sam another moment to contemplate the shock, and he barreled out the bathroom door with a bang. Snatching up the silver knife from the top of the weapons duffle, he loomed over the spitting and hissing ca-_thing_, with one large hand pressing the creature's neck to the ground and the other hand deftly flipping open the knife and slicing the creature's leg.

The thing writhed under his hand, unable to escape from Sam's vice grip, and he waited for a reaction, _any_ reaction.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just more hissing and spitting. Sam didn't need any mind reading mojo to know what it was saying.

Still holding the creature, he groped in his duffle for the flask of holy water, thoroughly dousing the thing with no regret and more than a hint of desperation.

Nothing. Nada. Null.

Salt, this time, although shaking a couple cups of salt on a wet cat generally wasn't the best idea.

He released the squirming thing, letting it scramble back against the wall_— it's just a cat, Sam—_and rocked back on his heels, dropping the canister of salt next to the discarded flask of holy water. He absentmindedly made a note to restock them both later.

Scrubbing his hands hard on his face, pushing the palms deep enough in his eye sockets to see dark static through the black, Sam tried to gain control of his pounding heart and let tension slowly bleed from his body.

'_What the freakin' hell was that, you lunatic?' _The cat hissed, trying unsuccessfully to shake off most of the salt that dissolved in the holy water, and thus, its fur. '_My coat is never going to be glossy again,' _It griped mournfully.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I just-," Sam started with a halting uncertain tone, "I thought you were a shifter or skin walker or something. I didn't check last night and, well…" He didn't want to say he was reading _the cat's mind. _He didn't even know why he was bothering to apologize and explain himself at all, it was just a cat, and he's never gonna see it again after he drops it off at the local shelter.

"Get a grip," Sam mumbled to himself, clenching the amulet around his neck for reassurance.

_I'm not in the cage. I'm not dreaming. This is real. Wariness is fine. Wariness keeps a hunter alive. But panic inducing paranoia is not okay. Just one thing at a time. Just a single freaky event at a time, is that too much to ask?_

Sam relaxed, releasing the amulet, and reached over to clean up the upturned salt canister and dripping flask on the floor. The cat eyed him, before settling down to clean itself, a coughing hiss erupted from the soaked thing when its tongue touched the salty water drenching its fur.

'_Dad damn it, buck-o. Aren't you supposed to be the calm, plan-everything-thirty-steps-ahead-with-four-Plan-B's one? When did you get so impulsive?' _

Tilting his head slightly, a bit perturbed by the sudden influx of coherent thought, Sam regarded the cat, once again struck by the familiarity of the distorted voice echoing in his mind.

_'I mean, really? Salt on Holy Water? I know this won't wash out. And the knife, sheesh, not what I expected after such a lovely show you put on for me. Can't really say I enjoyed the follow up action. I mean, I expected something like this from Dean-o but-,' _The cat continued to prattle in that annoying tone, oblivious to Sam's inner turmoil.

It all rushed back to Sam, old, painful memories weathered by centuries in the cage suddenly brought to the forefront.

The voice that taunted him and Dean at the college.

The voice that failed to teach him a lesson in Broward County.

The voice that dropped Sam and Dean in T.V. Land and directed them to play their roles.

The voice that told them to run at Elysian Fields Hotel, to let him face his older brother alone. A freakin' uncharacteristic sacrifice play.

"Gabriel!?"

_'Yes, Sam-a-lamb?' _

.

—ooOoo—

.


	5. Messenger Without a Message

Chapter 5: Messenger Without a Message

* * *

_"Brother, don't make me do this." Lucifer said, his voice soft and tight, shaking his head as if in disbelief and remorse._

_For a moment, Gabriel could see his older brother, the Morningstar, Daddy's favorite, his comforting presence reaching out to Gabriel through the rotting human flesh that stretched thin to encased his true form. _

_He could see a glimpse of the Lucifer he once knew and loved before humanity threatened his pride, the one that taught Gabriel how to fly, to fight, to deliver the word of their Father, the one who shone brighter than the sun. _

_"No one makes us do anything." Gabriel stated quietly, his eyebrows raising just a hair in defiance and maybe just a hint of apology. _

_Angels may not have been explicitly given 'free will' upon creation, but it could be learned, little Castiel was proof, even if his wings were clipped. Hell, even Gabriel and Lucifer themselves were proof of it, angels can change. _

_Gabriel could scarcely believe that after all that rebellion against their Father, after his temper tantrum and an eternity of time-out, dearest Luci would just roll over and follow the script. _

_Even if it did go along with his end game of 'kill-all-humans.' _

_"I know you think you're doing the right thing, Gabriel. But I know where your heart truly lies." The same Dad-damned soft voice again._

_Lucifer was either genuinely regretful of the situation or he was yanking on Gabriel's tail feathers, reminding him of all those moments beneath the stars, learning and listening, tearing out one golden primary at a time._

_The Father of Lies tilted his head and furrowed his eyebrows, a mix of remorse and exasperation, an expression so achingly familiar. Gabriel hesitated, just a moment, and stepped forward, toward Lucifer's back, archangel blade raised as the illusion in front of Lucifer tilted its head to the side, trying to subtly distract his older brother._

_Lucifer spun around, faster that Gabriel could react, snatching the archangel blade out of the air and plunging it into Gabriel's abdomen. _

_Pain like he could have never imagined, pain so deep it tore fissures into his Grace and true angelic form, blossomed in his body, acid bubbling beneath his skin as the very essence of Gabriel's being began to rip and unravel._

_Gabriel could barely hear his older brother's next words through the indescribable horror of feeling his grace shred, peel, and sear into tiny blackened pieced of himself. _

_He clutched at Lucifer's jacket desperately, pleadingly, as he came apart at the seams. _

_"…hocus pocus. Don't forget you learned all your tricks from me, little brother." Lucifer placed a gentle hand on the side of Gabriel's face in a facsimile of a long-forgotten affectionate gesture, of a time when they were brothers watching as their Father created the universe and stars around them._

_Lucifer twisted the blade._

_Gabriel screamed._

_…_

_Nothingness was rather dull._

_Or at least Gabriel thought so._

_The Void was black and boring, like floating in space when the stars had yet to be created, weightless and unable to tell if he was moving up or down or even register if there was an up or down. It was all relative anyway._

_It reminded Gabriel of that one time with the twins, Cindi and Candi, and a Sensory Deprivation Tank, man, that was a little bit out of his comfort zone even for an eternity old archangel. But let it never be said that Gabriel, or Loki, whatever people wanted to remember him as, had ever backed down from a hot and kinky come on. But, again, that wasn't the point._

_Trapped in the darkness, not even being able to tell if his eyes were open, just a consciousness in The Void, as he'd begun to call it, Gabriel was left to the mercy of his own thoughts both good and bad._

_He was probably stuck there for eternity, if it was as he suspected: angel afterlife. _

_Back to the place he'd begun, just a speck of a thought in his Dad's head, then —Boom— born as a fledgling little archangel with puffy golden wings and a copper halo too big for his rather shapeless multi-dimensional grace._

_Gabriel sighed, in his mind, of course, since nothing ever hinted in the blackness that he even had a physical form, no cartoony puff of breath, not even a whisper of air displacement. Scientists would have a hay day picking apart this space. _

_He hoped that the Winchesters actually watched Casa Erotica #13, not just threw it away thinking it was a screwy type of gallows humor. He wouldn't put it past Dean-o, the impulsive type he was, would probably watch the first ten seconds and toss it out for not getting to the point sooner. _

_Then Sam would chastise his brother, fish it out of the trash, and watch the whole thing by himself, twice maybe, just to make sure that he got all the information. All the while making that cute little bitch-face as Gabriel and a illusionary porn star got it on._

_That just cracked Gabriel up._

_For all of a second, before he realized he was literally laughing about an image his mind created. _

_Yeah, not exactly sane material right there._

_And so there was nothing. Just Gabriel trapped in his screwy head, not quite Beautiful Mind territory, but getting there. Eternity gave a ton of ammunition and opportunity to mess up, make mistakes, and cram them all into that tiny steel chest in the corner of his mind, collecting dust and tiny spiderwebs, but in The Void, Gabriel had nothing to distract him from pondering his own regrets. _

You wanna see the end of the world!?

You disloyal…

Brother, don't make me do this.

This is about you being too afraid to stand up to your family.

Coward.

_At least he wasn't a coward in the end. If Chuck's books were ever read in those quaint little book clubs or schools, (that would be the day the world succumbed to Dad-awful writing) he'd be talked about as a dynamic character, one who overcame inner conflicts—archangel vs. self— and changed tune for the damn Winchesters, no doubt like countless others who had those two barge into their blissfully ignorant lives. _

_Gabriel proved that even after millennia of routine and habits, he could come out of the pagan woodwork and shove the pre-destined script right up Michael's and Lucifer's asses. _

_Hopefully his unplanned sacrifice would give the Winchesters a fraction of a chance to stop the apocalypse._

_Maybe._

_Well, it's the Winchesters, if anyone can stop a thousand year anticipated apocalypse, it would be those two._

_…_

_Gabriel's thoughts buzzed, flitting from the torturous subject of his own death to the precise taste and texture of peanut M&amp;Ms, touching on each subject briefly as he could scarcely scrounge up the energy to contemplate his own existence that seemed to scrape the bottom of the barrel, as far as existences go._

_With his eyes closed, figuratively of course, he could imagine the stark detail of his older brother's rotting vessel before he stabbed Gabriel in the chest, ruthlessly twisting the blade and bidding him a sardonic goodbye._

_And then it was gone, replaced with the sweet sensation of cracking one of those delectable human candied chocolates between his teeth. The texture slightly gritty from the cheap chocolate, from the repeated freezing and melting while the packages were shipped, but accenting the unsalted roasted peanut that crunched between his molars as the chocolate melted on his tongue._

_And that whisper vanished, too, melding into a hint of a memory of his Father right after he was created, all wide-eyed and puffy feathered, a duty thrust upon him when he was too young to understand. Gabriel felt the warmth of his Father's hand on his head, ruffling his wispy head of hair, the gentle familiarity of God's voice intoning fondly, 'I know you'll do well.'_

Didn't I let you down, Dad.

_Then his mind was taken over with a play-by-play of one of the many cat videos he had been enraptured with for several human weeks once the site 'Youtube' had found its true calling: a kitten falling into a basket of laundry, a long-haired ginger cat getting stuck in a too-small cardboard box, another toffee colored short haired kitten looking regal as it slept on a shelf and slowly slipped into a fish tank, looking like a drowned rat as it thrashed— _

_A light shone through The Void._

_Which meant it really wasn't much of a void anymore now that Gabriel could see something. _

_It was rather like a search light from an old lighthouse on the coast, sweeping across the blackness, illuminating other dusty forgotten things momentarily before moving on with its consistent sweeping motion._

_The light brushed over him, and Gabriel could suddenly feel his body, his true form packed into a tiny pulsing ball of grace that cringed away and surged toward the light at once. His hundreds of overlaying dull golden wings furled loosely around his consciousness and Grace, protecting and comforting him in the unfathomable darkness. _

_If he were human, it would be like curling in a tight ball in a forgotten corner of the room, his arms clinging desperately to his sides, trying to comfort and envelope himself into a protective bubble._

_The light beam touched him for less than a second, before flitting to a different section of the not-really-a-void, and all sense of self Gabriel had gleaned from that one moment vanished in an instant. His body sense fell away, leaving a reverberating throb where his grace and wings comforted him before._

_Gabriel was forced to watch as the light beam that looked, felt, smelled even —like almonds and sunshine with a twist of mint— so achingly familiar, fell on another one of his brothers, a little one with two sets of torn black wings that flared out in welcome of the sudden light, the warmth of creation. _

_Then in a flash of bluish white and a surge of God's Grace, the little angel vanished. No doubt revived and delivered to safety._

_The light dimmed and disappeared, having found what it was searching for. And it wasn't Gabriel._

_He couldn't help but feel a flash of jealousy._

_But he'd made some bad decisions: abandoning his family, slumming in sin, killing his Father's prized children—the ones who deserved it, sure, but who was really counting—and in the end turning his back on who he was, _what_ he was made for._

_In the end, Gabriel wasn't needed, not now, and not for a long time._

_What was a messenger without a message?_

_Useless._

_…_

_Time was immaterial, just as space was empty, and existence was meaningless._

I think, therefore I am.

_Yeah, well, whatever shrink coined that phrase obviously had never been suspended in freakin' nothingness with freakin' nothing but his own twisted random thoughts for company._

I think, therefore I am.

_'Screw you. I've gotten damn tired of thinking.'_

_…_

_The light was back._

_Some time had passed, Gabriel couldn't exactly keep track with no reference besides his own screwy thoughts. It was between 'a bit' and 'a lot,' and a little longer than 'some.' _

_Even to himself, it made very little sense, but then again, there wasn't anything to make sense of in this not-exactly-a-void-but-more-like-oblivion-with-a-capital-O._

_That was the name he'd been going with for 'a bit' and he was gonna stick with it._

_The light swept through the asteroid belt of forgotten things, teasing each being with a moment of hope for redemption before being extinguished and left to fester in the darkness for another eternity, and it passed them all by and scoured the might-be-Oblivion for an angel worthy of a second chance._

God is my strength.

_Gabriel couldn't help but feel a flash of desperate hope as the search light approached, but he viscously tamped down on that tentative emotion, not wanting to set himself up for failure._

_The light passed over his still form, his hundreds of wings curled protectively around his ball of consciousness and grace, their once shining majestic form that heralded the word of God, now tarnished and torn from years of neglect and apathy._

God is my strength.

_Then the search beam was gone._

_It had passed him over in search for another, and Gabriel couldn't prevent the pang of longing that throbbed in his chest._

_Gabriel couldn't be saved._

God is my strength.

_Curling his wings tighter around himself, he turned away from the radiance of God, from the memories, the hope, and the failures that would taunt him for another eternity. _

_He didn't notice when the light stopped and backtracked toward his form._

_Gabriel's head was buried in his figurative arms like a child hiding away after being scolded, feeling the crushing sense of disappointment despite how hard he'd tried smother that hesitant hope when the light appeared._

God is my strength.

_Gabriel didn't notice the light until his body was willed into existence once again, feeling his grace bask in the warmth and long-forgotten familiarity, inadvertently reaching out with his many tarnished wings out in greeting._

_He raised his head, allowing himself to hope, maybe he could be saved, maybe he was worthy of a second chance, a shot at redemption._

_There was a flash of heat, as if Gabriel was standing in front of a lit hearth on a winter's day, his wings furled around his shoulders like a feathery blanket imparting protection and comfort. _

_Gabriel was being enveloped, the familiar presence of his Father encompassing his tight ball of Grace and consciousness, the scent—sun, almonds, and that ozone smell after a thunderstorm— sending waves of nostalgia teasing half-forgotten memories of creation, of family, of faith._

_With a soft flutter of feathers, Gabriel flew once more._

_His hundreds of golden wings stretching to their fullest extent, the tarnished and damaged appearance of an eternity of neglect melting away in an instant. God, his Father, Dad, was at his back, gently encouraging Gabriel in a certain direction, reminiscent of his first flight, gliding over the newly created ocean, Lucifer and Michael below ready to catch him if he fell._

_Gabriel breathed, deep and even, basking in his Father's presence, happy to be home after so long._

_"I'm sorry." _

For everything, for me, for my brothers, for running, for forgetting.

_Gabriel felt Him smile, and he couldn't stop the tears running down his face as he smiled back._

_"Thank you." _

I love you. I miss you. I'm sorry.

Goodbye. I'll see you again.

_And He vanished._

God is my strength.

_…_

_Gabriel gasped._

_In a rather cliche way, as one who was once dead is prone to do, as he reentered his deserted vessel, staring unseeing at the water stained ceiling of the Elysian Fields Hotel Ballroom. _

_His hands scrabbled against the wooden floorboards dusted in a thin layer of silt and plaster bits, disturbing the dirt that had settled on his cold empty vessel into billowing clouds. He coughed viscously, trying in vain to clear his parched throat of the months of dirt that had clung to his insides, the sudden contrast between feeling nothing to feeling _everything_ was a bit overwhelming, even for an all-powerful archangel._

_Overall, he felt like an eternity old pile of dog shit. Not even flaming, rather crusty, if Gabriel was to think about it._

Thanks, Dad.

_But he was alive and kicking, er, not yet kicking. More like twitching, vigorously._

_Gabriel tried to move his feet under him. Then the pain hit him like car crashing into a spiky cactus at 80 mph. Don't ask, he was a bit drunk at the time. _

_A sharp, excruciating sensation like being stabbed in the stomach by a very large knife. He looked down, tucking his chin to his chest, and realized it was the aftermath of just that._

Kind of a crappy fix-up, Daddy-o.

_The gapping hole left by his own angel blade when Lucifer stabbed him was still there, thankfully the pig sticker was gone, probably merging with his grace once he had 'died,' but it still freakin' hurt. That searing grace burning sensation still tingled down his spine._

Shit.

_The wound wasn't healing, not that he exactly expected it to since it was from an archangel blade. He did die from it, after all. But his vast mostly untouched Grace was pouring out of the hole, scattering into the air like freakin' dust mite poop._

Oh, holy mother of-

_Already his Grace had drained to half strength. Pouring out unconfined like the blood pooling under his back and around his ribs._

_There had to be something. Anything he could do to stop it. He didn't want to taste the sweetness of freedom before ending back in the-not-quite-a-void for another eternity and a half._

_"Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit-shit-"_

_Gabriel tried in vain in his panicked state to staunch the flow of blood. Not so much thinking that his actions would help his internal issues, but more to give him something to occupy his hands, to avoid ripping out his own hair in panic and frustration._

Freakin' Dad on a freakin' pogo stick, with a freakin' yo-yo.

_His breaths came in short panicked gasps as his hands pressed down on the wound._

_His grace had almost drained to nothing now, the level of a principality, perhaps. But nothing compared to the vast resources Gabriel had at his prime._

_Icy fear grasped his heart. He didn't want to go back. Gabriel didn't want to die again._

_There had to be something._

_Gabriel felt a tendril of his trickster magic, a polluted version of his celestial grace, through the frenzy. Gripping it tightly, Gabriel did the first thing that came to mind. _

_He'd die if he stayed in this form. So he had to be _something _else._

_There was a soft pop, like from one of those movies alerting the audience that something mystical happened._

_The rest of his Grace drained to nothing, literally nothing this time. And the tendril of tentative trickster magic vanished as soon as Gabriel let it slip from his fingers in alarm._

_Gabriel was confused, his eyes were shut tight in nervousness and anticipation of another death, but he was still alive and kicking (twitching). _

_Without opening his eyes, Gabriel sighed, thinking it was over, and although graceless at the moment, he was alive._

_His eyes shot open when a sigh turned into a rather petulant mew._

_Looking down at himself and the pile of clothes around his now furry body, Gabriel could barely hold back a yowl of alarm and frustration._

_If it wasn't one problem, it was another._

Dad-Damn it!

-oOo-

"_-and now I'm here._" Gabriel ended with a chipper tone, trying to carefully clean the drying fur under the motel pencil splint.

Sam closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and couldn't help but sigh, long and loud.

Gabriel was just as irritating as he remembered.

"So let me get this straight," Sam started, his words calm but there was an undertone of exasperation and anger, "you died."

_"Yup." _Gabriel replied both in Sam's mind and as a mournful meow in reality. He settled back onto the warm bed of towels beneath the heater, hoping the warm gentle breeze from the radiator will dry his fur faster.

"Then you went to some kind of angel afterlife."

_"Uh-huh_."

"Which you don't remember anything about besides it was black and then you got pulled out."

_"Blacker than a demon's soul. Blacker than the blackest black you've ever seen, Sam-a-lamb. Blacker than… something else super duper black. You get the point. Go on." _Gabriel pinned Sam with an amused and taunting side eyed glance, his toffee eyes dilated to slits in the sunlight streaming through the blinds.

"So you were put back into your body, turned yourself into a cat, and…" Sam trailed off, his head tilting to the side, a move mimicked by the cat before him, "got stuck?"

Gabriel hissed in indignation._ "I didn't get stuck!" _

His eyes narrowed when Sam tilted his head knowingly the other way, whose eyes were hard with an unidentifiable emotion.

"So you can turn back to your human form?"

_"Yes!" _Gabriel replied before he thought about it, not wanting to appear weak in front of anyone, even the littlest Winchester.

"Then why don't you." Sam demanded. He wanted some answers and Gabriel giving conflicting information and beating around the bush was trying his patience.

"So you died and came back, so what. Join the club. I've died three times, and Dean has died twice, not including the hundreds of times you murdered him in front of me to try and teach me a lesson!"

Sam was standing now, the pent up anger and frustration that has been building from the day he was resurrected and knew Dean didn't need him anymore finally bursting forth.

"But even after all that, we didn't give up. We didn't run away. We kept doing what we alway did. We hunted things, we helped people. We fought against the apocalypse. And people were killed. Then I said yes to _Lucifer_ and jumped into the cage with him and Michael!"

Sam was pacing now, not looking at the pathetic form of Gabriel, damp, miserable, forced into the tiny body of a cat because he was dealt a crappy hand. He knew he shouldn't be angry, Sam knew Gabriel was keeping secrets about what happened. He was so angry at himself, his life, everything that's happened since he'd come topside again. Gabriel probably didn't deserve this anger.

But he couldn't yell at himself, or his situation.

The grace writhed beneath his skin, burning like fire in his veins as anger clouded his vision.

"And you just hid until the storm passed. Stuck your head in the sand and ran away from your problems, just like you did before. You're a damn coward. Where were you when I-, when Bobby and Castiel were killed? Where were you when Adam was possessed? Where were you when Dean was left alone? Where were you when I jumped into hell?

Sam was furious, at Gabriel, at God, at himself.

There were snatches of snappish replies and denials that whispered through the haze of anger in his mind, but most of it was drowned out by his raging heartbeat and the grace lancing through his veins.

_"Sa—. No—. I'm not a—. Well, screw yo—. You're the one who jumpstarted the end of tim—. You deserv—. Clean up your own damn me—."_

"Why do you get a 'get outta hell free card,' what about everyone else who fought and died to stop the end of the world? Ellen, Jo, Bobby, Cas, what about everyone who deserved it! Then you wander back here like you know the punchline to the joke that's my life and…"

Sam sat down hard, his hand running through his hair, tugging harshly on the roots as the fight suddenly fled from him.

A breathy chuckle escaped at the end of a harsh sigh. "What am I saying? It's not like you care. It wasn't your responsibility to end the apocalypse. It wasn't your responsibility to get between your brothers' fight."

_It's not your fault I screwed up and everyone died._

Sam sighed, tipping his head back to bang against the wall, the pale green patterned wallpaper brought in and out of focus as Sam suddenly felt exhausted and aged beyond his years.

_"-m. Sam. You hear me?" _Gabriel's voice sounded faint, like it was distorted through water.

He could still feel the grace tingling at the tips of his fingers, reacting to his distress, biding its time impatiently until it was used. He banging his head once more against the wall, trying to make the feeling go away.

_"Hey. I need you to do something for me." _Gabriel continued, _"just take a deep breath. That's it. Good."_

Sam did as asked, calming down from his self-righteous tirade.

The grace _burned._

_Shit. _

Sam banged his head against the wall again, this time in admonishment. He just figured out that using the grace would burn him out, then he just turned and waved it around haphazardly because his emotions got away from him.

_"In through your nose, out through your mouth. Slow and deep. And all that jazz."_

He pulled the writhing grace back with every inhalation, curling it safely around his core. The tingling returned full forced to his extremities, as if all his limbs had fallen asleep, but the burning was gone and the danger of lashing out had passed.

_"…Oookay. First off, screw you, Winchester. If you have a problem, feel free to tell me! And I'll let you know that I. Don't. Care. I did my part. And I died for it. As did you. So you can shut your mouth." _Gabriel's voice was laced with venom and frustration, his lithe body taut with tension and carefully controlled anger.

"_When your brother decides to kill you, tell me again how much of a coward I am." _

Sam banged his head against the wall, one last time for good luck. Now the anger had left his system, he'd realized how unfair his words had been, a one sided attack on Gabriel, placing the blame of how the apocalypse ended on his shoulders when he had _died_ for Dean and Sam.

It was all Sam's fault anyway, he started it, and he ended it. Just a bit too late to save the people who mattered.

"I'm sorry." Sam said quietly but sincerely.

There was a pause, and Sam continued to stare at the water stained ceiling as morning light streamed through the cheap blinds. Gabriel glared at Sam for a long moment, trying to discern his sincerity, and settled back into the bed of warm towels, his fur now mostly dry under the gentle heat.

_"Secondly," _Gabriel continued with an easy tone that contrasted harshly with his former demeanor, _"What happened with the apocalypse, and where, in Dad's name, did you get that grace?"_

_…_

_"… So you jumped."_ Gabriel stated abruptly after a long silence, demanding a clarification.

"Yes." Sam answered easily, shaking his head slightly in exasperation.

He was sitting on the bed in front of Gabriel, his elbows propped up on his knees, supporting his chin as he had explained an overview of what had happened after Gabriel been killed.

_"Into the cage."_

Sam nodded.

_"After saying yes to Lucifer."_

Another nod.

_"And taking control of him."_

One more nod.

_"You were stuck in there for six months, until you escaped and were resurrected?"_

"Yes." Sam gritted his teeth, trying to hold onto his slipping patience. He hoped, for Gabriel's sake, he wasn't going to have to explain a third time.

_"So… you jumped." _

"Yes, Gabriel! Yes, I jumped. I said yes to Lucifer. He possessed me, I-he killed Castiel and Bobby. I-_he_ almost beat Dean to death. I took back control before he could, and when Michael appeared wearing Adam, I dragged him down into the cage with me and Lucifer. There! The end!" Sam snapped, throwing his hands up in frustration.

_"Well, not quite the end. You somehow escaped the most secure lock box ever created, without releasing Luci or Mikey." _Toffee eyes awarded Sam with an appraising, almost respected look.

Sam rubbed a hand down his face.

"Look. I was walking and I got to the end of the cage. I slipped through the bars. Lucifer and Michael couldn't escape because the cage was made to contain Archangels, not human souls. Then I woke up at the cemetery, six months having gone past, with this grace in me and I have _no_ idea why it's there."

_"So…—"_ Gabriel began again, drawing out the syllable.

"If you say 'you jumped,' I swear to _God_—" Sam started, glaring at the caramel colored cat that had a cheshire grin on its face.

_"Don't blow a gasket, kiddo." _Gabriel chuckled in amusement, he had forgotten that riling up the Winchester was so _fun_! _"So where's Dean-o? I thought you two would be attached at the hip with the erotic co-dependency thing two you have going."_

Sam stiffened, his eyes darting away from the inquisitive toffee eyes.

"He's quit hunting. He's got a girl, now, and a kid." Sam answered shortly.

_"Oh? And where are you in this happy little family? Going for a visit? Maybe gonna find a girl of your own and settle down in the house next door_—"

_Shut it._

"No." Sam gritted his teeth and tried to avoid remembering how _happy_ Dean looked without hunting, without him.

_"Oooookay. I'm not gonna touch that with a ten foot pole." _He said, but toffee eyes glittered with mischief and vindictive curiosity.

"Whatever. It's none of your business. All you need to know is that I'm still hunting, alone." Sam said sternly.

A streak of light flared in his eyes, the slivers of morning greetings through the blinds finally crept their way onto his face and drew his attention to the time. He needed to check out of the hotel before 11 and that was only fifteen minutes away. There was a distinct gnawing sensation in his gut that warned him it was had been much too long since his last meal.

Standing and stretching his cramped muscles from sitting too long, Sam began to collect the various miscellaneous items scattered around the motel room, shoving things in one of the duffles haphazardly.

_"Whatcha doing?" _

Sam snorted and deadpanned. "I'm building a spaceship."

_"Huh. Always wanted one. Millennium Falcon or Enterprise."_

"Enterprise. Always been more of a Trekky." Sam replied, falling into easy rhythm as he continued to shove things into their designated duffle. "I'm the captain, but if you play nice, I'll let you be Sulu."

_"Ha! Right. No way, jose. If anyone's gonna be the Captain, its gonna be me! I'm am much more qualified to explore the final frontier and captain a starship. I'm an eternity old archangel who-"_

"-Is stuck in the body of a kitten." Sam cut in smoothly, turning his back to smother the smile that threatened to crack him composure.

_"I'm not a kitten! I'm a full sized adult cat!" _

"You barely weigh 6 pounds. Definitely not full-sized."

_"What!" _Gabriel mewled indignantly, a spitting hiss accompanying the spat words that snowballed into a rant about his majestic form, the epitome of cat attractiveness.

Sam ignored him and hefted the two duffle bags out the door, flooding the room with uninterrupted sunlight. The car was parked right outside the door and Sam quickly stowed the bags in the trunk, slamming it closed and locking the contents securely inside.

_"Huh." _Gabriel mentally projected from the doorway when Sam turned around back toward the room, _"I always thought you were more of a classic car type guy. You know, a Mustang or Impala, maybe a Camaro. Not… this."_

"Too expensive, didn't have the money. This is more practical anyway." Sam answered briefly, rapping his knuckles on the side of the mini SUV.

_"Yeah, for once your gigantic moose body will fit." _Gabriel snorted, trying to take another few steps out the door, but the splint and broken bone efficiently discouraged any inclination to move.

Sam shook his head in exasperation and maybe a hint of amusement. He locked the room door, after giving it a cursory glance for forgotten items, and left to return the key to the owner at the front.

Gabriel sighed, and forced himself to move the the eaves of the building. He wanted to rest for another moment before he had to painfully walk on his broken paw for any length of time. Obviously, Sam was leaving, and Gabriel needed to find some food and shelter for the next few week while the bone slowly mended, the cat way.

_Maybe that baby banshee from last week could take me in for a bit._ Gabriel thought with a grimace, that child was annoying as hell, but was kind all the same.

When Sam returned, he spared Gabriel a glance before opening the passenger side door, messing with something for a minute, before gesturing mildly with a small smile.

"Your starship awaits, Captain."

His tail perked up and flitted back and forth grandly. Gabriel buried the happiness and relief beneath a smug grin.

"If I may…" Sam stooped down to scoop up the small furry creature with an ego the size of Manhattan.

_"If it would please you." _Gabriel agreed with a put upon sigh.

"Of course, Sir." Sam snorted, placing him in the passenger seat where a nest of motel towels awaited him.

Gabriel couldn't quite prevent the rush of gratitude and surprise at Sam's consideration for his comfort, or the purr of contentment as he settled in the nest and realized that, to Sam, his accompaniment on his journey was more than implied.

The throbbing pain in his arm seemed to ease.

Sam carefully shut the passenger door, settled himself in the driver's side, and started the car.

_"Maximum warp. Punch it, Sulu." _The cat ordered haughtily from the passenger seat, gesturing Sam forward with a flick of his tail. _"I desire breakfast and candy, preferably both in one."_

The helmsman snickered, unable to keep up the charade any longer. But, none the less, put the car on the road.

"Come on. Can't I at least be the First Officer?"

_"Nah. I'm sorry kiddo, but you're not nearly cool enough."_

Sam harrumphed and sulked quietly, playing with the radio for a moment until it played some soft rock.

_"Thank you." _It was a whisper that echoed through his mind, startling in its sincerity.

Sam peered down at the form of Gabriel, the once great-archangel-turned-pagan-trickster, now an underweight cat in his passenger seat.

He was grinning, a true cheshire cat grin, his tail flitting back and forth mischievously as his eyes dilated.

_"Although," _He started thoughtfully, _"You could be Uhura. Those long legs could definitely do her justice. Those calf muscles would look amazing in a miniskirt."_

Sam sighed and turned back to the road, hiding an exasperated smile as Gabriel cackled gleefully from the passenger seat.

_Maybe some canned cat food would be welcomed. _

Sam glanced back at the self-satisfied archangel-trickster-turned-cat beside him and looked back to the road with a smirk.

Yeah, Gabriel would appreciate the gesture.

.

—ooOoo—

.

**A/N: **Hi, guys! I know it has been a long time since I last updated, but I started to write original stories and lost momentum on this fan fiction. It was a bit hard picking this story back up because I'd forgotten the nuances in my writing style, and I ended up re-editing the whole thing while reviewing. I don't know when the next update will be, but I do have all my (extensive and detailed) plot notes, so I hope to update again between two weeks and a month.

Also, this chapter is really choppy but I didn't want to delay anymore and end up never posting the thing, so here it is, in all its mediocre glory. Gabriel and Sam were particularly hard to characterize when interacting, since I've messed with their development a bit. Tell me if their conversation seems forced or weird, I'll try to improve.

As always, let me know what you think!

-Rezz


End file.
